Zutara Week '09
by Jade Sabre
Summary: My overdue contributions to last year's Zutara Week, hopefully done in time to have this year's prompts ready for next July. Prompt: Cactus Juice.
1. crossover

**Title: **Zutara Week 2009

**Author: **Jade Sabre

**A/N, Take 1:** So I'm a day late with this one, but in my defense I took the GRE on Monday and was kind of out of commission for the rest of the day. Anyway, here's my first entry for Zutara Week 2009. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I think that's partially because I'm going to break down and end up writing a whole series of ficlets set in this universe, because the potential for hilarity is ENDLESS. I think I saw some others in this same vein, but none quite like this—at least, I hope so.

Reviews would be absolutely lovely!

**A/N, Take 2:** So, once again coming in nearly a year after the fact, I am here with my entries from Zutara Week 2009. I didn't finish the last three, and I don't know if I will; but I was rereading these ficlets the other day, and found them enjoyable, and thought I would share. With 2008's fics, I tried to stay in a post-Western-Air-Temple but pre-Boiling-Rock timeframe; the 2009 ones all fall between Southern Raiders and the finale. Aside from this one; and now, lest my note become longer than my fic, I release you to read it, and review, if you will.

**Disclaimer:** Having rewatched "The Southern Raiders" a thousand times, I can safely say that I do _not _own Avatar, because how anyone could come up with a Kataang ending after that episode is a problem for which I still have not found the solution. …outside of the awesome Zutara fandom, that is.

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**challenge 1: crossover**

All in all, Katara decided, it was shaping up to be a pretty terrible week.

So far, the only bright spots she could identify were the kind of bright spots one found in the darkest of circumstances: they had _escaped_, they had _avoided capture_, and her ship had _not been blown to tiny pieces_. Her ship had also _not crashed into anything_, which was of course due solely to her and Sokka's superior piloting skills. And they were relatively safe for the moment, provided that the Empire didn't decide to start randomly blasting the asteroid field to bits.

Still, the fact that they had _had _to escape and worry about being captured and blown to bits, the fact that they were still hiding, meant that she wasn't going to be able to really rest easy until they were far, far away from here. And they weren't going to be _able _to get far, far away from here if she and Sokka weren't able to finish their repairs. SU-K1 had had an infuriatingly long list of minor damages that were easily addressed, but the overall looming issue of the damaged hyperdrive motivator was still lacking a solution. She'd left Sokka sitting in front of the hyperdrive scratching his big furry head while SU-K1 offered unhelpful solutions, leaving it to her copilot's discretion as to whether or not the droid stayed active or became part of the repair. A _permanent _part. She wouldn't lay any blame; the droid's tinny voice, almost specially designed to tease and nag a Wookie in six thousand different languages…

On second thought, she wasn't so sure she wanted SU-K1 as part of her ship. Without stopping, she altered her course through the ship, passing by the cockpit and intending to take a shortcut through one of the smaller passages in order to tell—

A flickering flame stopped her in her tracks. Prince Zuko, celebrated Rebellion leader, diplomat, and general pain in the everything, was manipulating a tiny flame as he welded shut a valve whose cover had been flapping around for days. Prince Zuko, the least practically helpful (if most idealistically driven) man she had ever met, was _fixing her ship_.

Katara was not entirely sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, it was _her ship_, and she and Sokka could handle all the repairs just fine. On the other hand, it was just a little valve that had needed welding to keep it from knocking the wires around it loose and shutting off power to the galley (which would cause a failure in the lights in the sleeping quarters, which would probably mess with the water pressure in the 'freshers). He was being helpful. That was okay.

On the _other_ other hand, she had pretty much given up on the prince. Oh sure, there had been that little incident in the south passage, and there were times when it seemed he went out of his way to put a hand under her elbow or some other mannered bit of nonsense that required physical contact, but for the most part he seemed more amorously interested in the Rebellion than in anything else. Which was not a little frustrating, given his sharp eyes and quick wit and impressively muscular frame—Katara shook her head. It wasn't worth it.

Zuko had stopped welding and started trying to push the valve back into place—easily done, if one knew exactly how to jiggle it, and so Katara stepped forward to help him. He threw off her hand the moment it touched his—his skin was hot—and then hissed as he scraped his palm across the hot metal.

Katara crossed her arms, miffed. "Easy, Your Worship. I'm just trying to help."

He cut his eyes at her, going back to the valve. "Will you please stop calling me that?"

Katara started. He'd sounded…well. Desperate? Annoyed, but not to the point of hostility? In any case, it was a tone demanding some sort of compliance, at least to find out how deep it went. "Sure, _Zuko_."

He rolled his eyes. "You make things so difficult sometimes."

Hard to argue with that. "I do, I really do," she said, watching him, wary and intrigued and a little delighted, all at once. Not so intrigued as to give up all honesty, however. "You could be a little nicer, though. Come on, admit it," she said, tilting her head, daring him. "Sometimes you think I'm all right."

He sighed and let go of the valve, shaking out his hand. "Occasionally," he said, with an air of defeat. "Maybe." He glanced at her, a quick up-and-down look that made her shift her stance, wondering if he—"When you're not acting like a peasant."

"Peasant?" she demanded. "_Peasant_? You think I'm—"

"Well, you are a peasant," he said.

"So what else should I—who said I was a peasant? You don't know I'm a peasant." She caught sight of red on the hand he was rubbing, and said, "You're bleeding."

"Yes, I am," he said as she stepped forward. "But you do _act_ like a peasant."

He was watching her, too, watching her watch him as she automatically reached for her hydrohealer with one hand and his hand with the other. Her eyes on her work, the rest of her acutely aware of the tightness of the corridor and the proximity of his impressive muscular frame, she said, "I do not."

"Only sometimes," he said, his voice hoarse. She finished healing him, the cool blue light of her hydrohealer fading as she slipped it into her pocket, still holding onto his hand. It was a nice hand, as hands went, much smoother than her own. On impulse, she lightly ran her finger across his calluses (calluses from holding blasters, not from doing hard work constantly fine-tuning the fastest bucket of bolts in the galaxy). "You—" his voice cracked, and she resisted the impulse to look up at him "—s-stop that."

His voice sent shivers down her spine, tingling with possibilities previously thought unattainable. "Stop what?"

"Stop that," he repeated, almost petulant, and when she glanced at him, his face was red. "M-my hands are dirty."

"No they're not," she said, annoyed at his impracticality but mostly focusing on the fact that his fingers were curling towards hers. "I just healed them with water. What are you afraid of?"

"Afraid?" he said, and for a moment they looked at each other, and Katara thought perhaps he _was _afraid, and hell, she would be lying if she thought jumping into unknown territory without a star chart was the easiest thing she'd ever done. But she'd seen the prince—rescued him, fought beside him, fought with him, fought _for _him, dreamed about him, wished—and she knew that drawing back now would kill her, and she thought maybe it might kill him too.

Still, wouldn't do to make this seem like any sort of _serious _adventure; had to take him through the sublight paces, first. "You're trembling," she pointed out, although frankly she was too.

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am—" in one deft movement he tilted up her chin, and then there they were, their faces inches apart, and his good eye went wide as he realized what he had done "—not."

She searched his face, and then said, "I think you like me because I'm a peasant. You haven't had enough peasants in your life."

"I happen," he said, as she slowly raised herself on her tiptoes, "to like nice girls."

"I'm a nice girl."

"No, you're not," he said, and the heat of his voice was enough to lift her the last few centimeters. "You're—"

And then they were kissing, and _stars_ they were kissing and Katara knew that this was _exactly _what all the fighting and the hostility had been building up to, this moment with her hands in his hair and his cradling her neck, and he was turning out to be a surprisingly good kisser considering she'd never heard any tale of his having any non-military exploits, and part of her was already warning herself that she could _not afford _any entanglements at this point in the game no matter _how _perfect and wonderful and exactly everything she had—

"Captain! Captain!" Somewhere beyond the sound of her blood rushing through her ears and Zuko's breath rasping with hers, SU-K1 was calling for her. It would figure, she thought vaguely, the droid's voice would be that piercing. "I've isolated the reverse power flux coupling!"

It took a moment for her to disentangle herself—she caught a glimpse of Zuko staring at her with something between wide-eyed happiness and utter confusion—and as she turned towards SU-K1 she felt his arms dropping away from her. The droid's strangely painted metallic features stared back at her with an expression that was supposed to be pleasant and non-threatening but which now appeared to be a giant target just aching to connect with her fist. She opened her mouth, closed it, licked her lips, and finally said, "Thank you."

"Oh, you're welcome, captain," SU-K1 said. "I'll go inform Sokka. No doubt he will be very pleased."

"Great," Katara said, turning back to Zuko, only to see him slipping out the door behind her. _Damn_.

Still, he could pretend to forget glances, touches, heated exchanges in back corridors—but even _he _couldn't be so high-minded as to forget a kiss. And it was a small ship, so he couldn't hide from her forever. She'd catch him again.


	2. blood

**Title:** Zutara Week '09

**Author:** Jade Sabre

**A/N:** Obligatory Southern Raiders ficlet is obligatory, but I hope you like it. Thanks for all the reviews!

**Disclaimer:** _Avatar_: _The Last Airbender_ is the brainbaby of Bryan and Mike and the copyrighted property of a bunch of doofuses who inexplicably allowed a crap movie to be made out of it. I can only hope that my fic does the original brainbaby justice.

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**challenge 2: blood**

Zuko promised himself many, many things before he joined the Avatar. He promised himself he would teach Aang to the best of his ability, that he would do his best to demonstrate that he was sorry for what he had done and intended to make amends. He would continue his own training, so that he would be ready to contribute to the final battle wherever he was needed. He wouldn't try to force himself on the group, but he would be polite and sociable and apologize to anyone he had ever accidentally damaged in the course of his travels. He would show respect, and do his best to remember everything his uncle had ever taught him about dealing with other people (and to forget everything his uncle had ever taught him about charming women). He would make his uncle proud, so that one day, perhaps, he would earn his uncle's forgiveness.

But there was one thing in particular that he promised himself, something he decided and then tried his best not to think about because he knew even without thinking about it that the waterbending girl was not going to be pleased to see him and that she was going to be one of the most difficult aspects of teaching the Avatar. He'd made so many mistakes with her—from tying her to a tree all night and threatening her with her mother's necklace to thinking she would be an easy mark in the spirit oasis to refusing her help with his uncle to letting her go in the caves to not going with her in the caves to betraying her to—

And so he promised himself, deep down, that he would not underestimate Katara.

That fell through less than twelve hours into their tenuous cease-fire, because while he expected hostility from her, he didn't think she'd be the type to come to his room and threaten to kill him if he so much as breathed in the wrong direction. He resolved not to expect anything from her, then, and in the days that followed she glowered at him and glared at him and finally he couldn't handle being respectful, and so in order to keep one promise he broke another, and avoided her whenever he could. He still tried to make amends, but when it became clear that helping her father escape prison wasn't going to be enough, he nearly gave up.

Nearly. Because he'd promised someone else, a long time before he knew any of this would happen, that he would never give up without a fight. And if he couldn't keep that promise, he wouldn't be able to keep any of the others.

He saw his chance come, finally, a chance to achieve the forgiveness he wanted, a chance to give Katara the peace she so desperately needed. And so he fought against the misgivings in his head—he had no doubt she could handle the Southern Raiders, but he worried, a little, about what she might become if she stooped to their level—and the naysayers around them, and followed her onto Appa's back and into the sky.

He'd underestimated her determination, he realized, watching her stay awake and steer through the night, eyes narrowed even as her eyelids drooped from exhaustion. He'd thought her single-minded hatred of him had represented her utmost focus and concentration; now he saw what she was like when she truly hated with everything she had within her. She was dark, and fierce, angry and brooding; she was frightening, and beautiful, and he wasn't sure how to put the two together in his mind. He'd underestimated her capacity for darkness, and a little part of him wondered how much of it was his fault, how much his betrayal had added to the deeper hurts already lurking within her. He ached to make it up to her; he settled for flying and keeping watch while she slept.

He thought, as he watched her create waves and wipe an entire ship's crew off the deck with little more than a wave of her arms, with less than a moment's consideration for their survival, that he had seen the breadth of her abilities as a bender, the places she was willing to go as a warrior. And then he saw her—somehow—contort a man's body against his will, and realized he didn't know what she was capable of and wasn't sure if she would need to be stopped, if anyone would be able to stop her.

"What you did," he said, as they flew towards Yon Rha's village, "back there, on the ship."

She turned her head, just enough to indicate she'd heard him, not enough so he could see her face. "What about it?"

Her voice was cool, professional, deadly; but he heard drops of pain and a trickle of guilt running through it, and so he said neutrally, "That technique you used on the captain. I hadn't seen it before."

"That's not surprising," she said, and he thought he might be a little afraid of her. "As far as I know, there's only one other person in the world who can do it. It's called bloodbending."

He blinked. He hadn't imagined in his wildest dreams that she would be capable of something like that. It was terrifying, not knowing she had the power and was unafraid to use it on those she hated, not knowing whether or not she would ever forgive him.

"I can only do it during the full moon," she said, almost as if attempting to reassure him—or give him fair warning.

"Ah," he said, the only response he could think of, and she didn't elaborate further. The silence left him plenty of time to imagine the various ways in which she might use this power against him. And yet he didn't ask her to stop, or turn around; didn't for a moment think of leaving her on the island and finding his own way back to the others. He would follow her, wherever she went, because there was no other way to make it up to her; because he wanted to see—to _know_—what else she could do, because he had promised to help.

And he saw her skulk around the village, saw her read his hand signals and answer with her own movements, watched her face as she learned the truth behind her mother's death. He stood still and saw her _stop the rain_, saw her freeze the rain in a way that froze his blood. And he saw her stop, turn her back on the empty shell of a man who murdered her mother, and walk away. And he too turned and walked away, following in her muddy footprints as the rain slowly washed them away.

He didn't insist on piloting but she didn't try to take the reins from him, simply settled in the saddle as they flew in silence, up and out and away over the ocean. It wasn't until they left the storm behind them, leaving nothing but starry sky overhead and reflected in the sea below, that she spoke, quiet and a little drowsy.

"About—about bloodbending."

He turned around and saw her resting her head on the edge of the saddle, just high enough for him to see her face. "An old waterbender prisoner taught it to me," she said. "I didn't want to learn how to use it. I'm still not sure it was worth learning."

"Better you than someone else," he said.

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged, aware of her stare—curious and worried and wondering whether or not she had done the right thing. "You can control it," he said. "I trust you."

She stared at him, her blue eyes blinking slowly, and then she said, "Yes," and her head disappeared. A few minutes later he risked leaving Appa's reins long enough to look and see her sleeping, her face empty of expression, young and vulnerable. He'd underestimated her strengths, and her weaknesses; he'd underestimated her darkness, and how deep it ran within her; he'd always be surprised by her capacity and her ability to do things he'd never imagined. Yet he thought, as he watched her hair fluttering in her face, his true failing had not been in underestimating Katara but himself; in failing to realize his willingness to follow her wherever she went.

And that, he thought, as he returned to the reins and watched the stars glide by, was where the true danger lay.


	3. jealousy

**Title:** Zutara Week '09

**Author:** Jade Sabre

**A/N:** This one and "blood" kind of go together, inasmuch as they are me sitting down and writing out what-I-saw-was-happening-in-scene-x. Also, I squealed like a little girl when Zuko slouched his way into stealing Aang's seat. Just thought I would throw that out there.

**Disclaimer:** ATLA doesn't belong to me, and I can only wish to come up with something half as brilliant.

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**challenge 3: jealousy**

If Zuko hadn't been so busy freaking out, he might have noticed Aang's expression.

It was understandable that he didn't. It seemed as though the onstage action held everyone's attention, in the same way one watches the inevitable collision of a certain Avatar with a certain cabbage stand. The actors were grotesquely costumed and made-up, their dialogue ridiculously out-of-character, and the special effects, while better than some he'd seen, were still too easily understood, the pulleys and gears easily visible. But no matter how impossible it was to stop watching, no one—especially no one who had _lived_ it—could possibly be taking the events of this play seriously.

Which didn't really explain everyone's reactions to the sight of Katara and Zuko's actors holding hands and standing cheek-to-cheek. Dimly, Zuko could hear Sokka's strangled noises of consternation from behind him, and Suki's gasped giggles. He was more aware of the fact that Katara's arm, which had been casually not-touching his, was now stiff. He felt his own face seize into some sort of embarrassed, horrified expression, his skin turning bright red, and as he turned his head, he saw Katara looking at him with equal mortification. There was no way to escape her—no way for her to escape him—so they sidled away from each other, hoping distance might save them from the closeness their alter egos were exhibiting onstage.

But it wasn't just the awfulness of the dialogue—Zuko cringed to think that _anyone_ would imagine him capable of such nonsense, and he would be the first to admit he wasn't the most eloquent speaker in the world—or the overacting of the players that made him want to sink his chair and possibly crawl into a hole somewhere and die in obscurity.

It was the fact that he almost wished the play was right.

And it was stupid and dumb—as stupid and dumb as his desire to sit next to her, and his stubborn refusal to let Aang sit there instead—but he kind of wished...he wished that their version was just a poorly written, overacted version of what had happened. That he _had_ been brave enough to say—anything—never mind that he hadn't wanted to say anything at the time, that he had been so busy being frozen by her grief and willingness to help him, by the idea that they might have something in common other than endless fighting. He wished he could go back and hit his younger self on the head and tell him that this girl was going to be the best thing that ever happened to him, and so he'd better start treating her right, so maybe—so maybe—

He glanced over at Katara, sitting with her hand to her forehead so that it blocked most of her face, her entire body poised to slide right over the edge of the balcony. So maybe what? She clearly wasn't interested. She clearly wanted to get far away from him because the thought of—of anything happening was so repulsive that—

But something _had_ happened in that cave, and even though he'd blown it completely, the play was half-right in that—she had _touched_ him, and maybe she had left and scrubbed her hands until she could forget it, but it still wasn't something that anyone else did ever and he should have known right then that any offer Azula could make him wouldn't be the same because no one would ever be willing to reach up and touch his scar without the slightest hesitation.

But he was stupid and dumb and now he was stuck sitting next to her when she didn't want to sit next to him because he didn't want to sit anywhere else. The play had moved on, and he didn't really want to watch what happened next. He didn't really want to look at Katara again, and so he casually glanced behind him—Sokka gave him a weirded out look, but Suki regarded him more thoughtfully. Avoiding her gaze, he saw Toph—cleaning her toes again, deliberately disregarding good manners, and he half-smiled—and then looked at Aang.

The frown on the younger boy's face surprised him; it wasn't just a frown relating to the fact that onstage his actor-self was busy betraying all of them, or that Aang's actor-self was about to get lightning in the back. It was a deep, almost petulant frown, as if he was thoroughly disturbed by something and that something made him unhappy. He glanced back at the stage—there was actor-Azula cackling with glee (and she, he thought, had been very well-cast)—and then, as actor-Katara saved actor-Aang's life, he glanced back at Aang and saw his frown lines ease.

Zuko stared at him, and then looked back at Katara—her eyes riveted to the stage, arms hugging herself as she leaned forward, hunched, biting her lip—and for a moment he remembered the caves, again, the part he didn't like to remember, when his uncle and the Avatar had burst in on the endless moment that was her fingers against his scar. He'd been glad to see Iroh—nothing could overrule that—but he remembered the Avatar, looking at him from over Katara's shoulder, the same look of narrowed eyes and frowning lips, a look he returned with something confused, and not a little put-off. He knew perfectly well that he begrudged Aang that hug now, and that even back then he'd been reeling from the sense of loss that came from losing contact with her, but he'd never thought that Aang—

And he knew Aang liked Katara. He wasn't stupid, and furthermore he was also in an awkward position of being able to appreciate all the wonderful qualities she possessed (and many of the darker ones, too, but when he thought about how he appreciated those too his stomach started to twist like his heart was aching and he didn't want to think about why). But he never thought—never thought that Aang might be—_jealous_ of him. Because the only reason Aang might be jealous would be that Katara might—

Zuko stopped himself, forced himself to watch the action onstage, was disappointed to see that the act was ending and intermission was coming, which meant he would have to face everyone else. Katara slipped off almost immediately, and he let her go; he wasn't surprised to see Aang rushing after her, and wondered if the boy was seeking reassurance. He wanted to tell Aang that it was a ridiculous idea, and that there was no reason for him to be jealous or worried about anything because the only reason would be—and Katara didn't—and it didn't help to get his hopes up—

But the seed of doubt had been planted, in _both_ their minds, and Zuko knew he would never be able to uproot it.


	4. cactus juice

**Title:** Zutara Week '09

**Author:** Jade Sabre

**A/N:** This is the last one I have done for last year's challenges…we'll see if anything comes of the last three. I struggled a bit with this one, but it is probably my second favorite, after "crossover." I hope you enjoy it, and look forward to hearing your thoughts!

**Disclaimer: **A:TLA still doesn't belong to me. Alas.

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**challenge 4: cactus juice**

Zuko woke in the middle of the night because he couldn't breathe, and he couldn't breathe because there was a hand over his mouth, and that hand was attached to Katara, one finger against her own lips as she loomed over him in the darkness. He blinked, but she was still there, her laughing eyes the only feature he could make out in her face. She smiled as she saw him and straightened, beckoning him to follow; confused, he stood, and she grabbed his hand and dragged him along as she danced around the others' sleeping bags.

It wasn't until they were out of the house, skipping down the steps towards the beach, that he allowed himself to speak. "What are you doing?"

"You'll see," came the reply, followed by another giggle. He gave up and concentrated on watching where his feet fell on the pebbly ground, trying not to be distracted by the way her wavy hair caught threads of moonlight amidst the dark—

He tripped and only her quick thinking saved them from both going down. Of course, her brilliant plan was to grab his other hand and tug him back to his feet; they were uncomfortably close together, and her eyes were strangely bright. "Um," he said, but she was already turning away.

She led him to the beach, where an unlit fire pit and a Fire Nation canteen were waiting for them. "Tada!" she said, releasing his hands in order to present her surprise.

Zuko blinked. "You dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night in order to have me light a fire for you?"

"No," she said, giggling as if this were the funniest thing he had ever said. "I dragged you out of bed to light a fire _and _to share something with you. If you will." She sat down on the sand next to the fire pit and reached for the canteen.

He hesitated, if only because it seemed a waste to ruin the moonlight's effect on her skin by starting a fire, but after coaxing a small one to life he sat down next to her, pulling up his knees and waiting. She uncorked the canteen and sniffed it, then held it out for him to smell; its odor was sweet, milky, with a hint of something odd that made him feel a little light-headed. "What is it?"

"Sokka must have saved some," she said, trying to look down the small hole to see the contents. "I woke up and I was thirsty, and the water in my waterskin is old, and so I went to see what Sokka had—"

"You stole your brother's water?" he said. "You're a waterbender. Couldn't you just—"

"Most of the water around here is salt water," she said, regarding him as if he were an idiot. "So I found this in Sokka's sack, and had a taste, and then I thought I needed to share it."

"Why?" he asked. "And why me?" He tried not to sound too hopeful or desperate.

"Well," she said, "first I think we should try some. Come here."

It was like something out of a dream, except that he would never ever admit to having such a dream: his lips and Katara's, with only a spare bit of metal between them, she staring deep into his eyes, her hands covering his as she directed the bottle towards his mouth. "You have to promise," she whispered, her breath smelling rather like the contents of the bottle, "that you won't tell anyone about this."

"All right," he said, and then he was drinking it, and then she took the bottle away from him and he was almost upset but instead he was laughing, and she was chugging and laughing, and somehow they were both lying on their backs in the sand and laughing. It hurt his stomach, the laughing, like he hadn't laughed so hard in years, but he couldn't stop. He felt her shift and turned his head to see her turning on her side, shaking her head only to have all her hair fall in her face. He laughed. She blew on it, causing an explosion—a parting—he saw her expression, annoyed, and her eyes round like the moon. Except that there were two moons. But not in the sky, in Katara's face, but they weren't moons, they were her eyes, they were moon-like—he lost hold of the coherent thought, and basked in the silver light in her eyes until her hair covered them again.

He reached out with two fingers, poking around—"That's my nose!"—until he lifted the hair away from one eye; she squinted at him, and he laughed.

She tossed her head, freeing her face, her eyes round and shining as she stared at him, unblinking even as she brought the bottle back to her mouth, drinking again. It left her lips with a _smack _and she handed it to him and said, "Drink more."

"Does the moon have a name?" he asked, taking the bottle, tasting metal and cactus juice and somehow disappointed for it, and she giggled, and he choked and swallowed and laughed because metallic giggles echoed between his ears, erasing the question.

"You," she said, and then she giggled, and said, "I can't see—you're always so—"

He couldn't feel the sand against half his face, and liked it that way; he was lying on air, the only way he could possibly be elevated to such celestial heights. "So?" he said, as if it mattered.

"_Serious_," she said, and she was laughing and snorting and trying to snatch the bottle back, but he held it away and she said, "And your smile is like a rainbow. Upside-down."

"Rainbows are circles," he said.

"So many colors," she said. "It looks like…"

"The moon?" The moons had moved, and he wasn't really sure moons ought to be able to move so rapidly, but perhaps it only looked fast because he was so close to the goddess peering through them.

"Ice," she said, shaking her head back and forth on the hand that precariously supported it. "Ice when the night won't end, and the hunters are hiding inside."

The crackling of the fire could have been the snap of a frost, but the air was warm and sleepy, snoring even, although maybe that was Sokka, and maybe Sokka would know what Katara (Katara Katara Katara he lost himself in the name because it sounded like the push-pull-push of a wave of a tide and the moon was push-pull-pushing his stomach over and over) meant and he asked her name, except instead he said, "Why me?"

She tried to shrug sideways and instead her head slipped off her hand and thumped against the sand and he thought the hunters were coming, but she giggled and he forgot again. "Well," she said, shifting the sand, "Sokka would've brought Suki, and I like Suki but they would've gone all googly-eyed and started kissing or something like that, and then Aang and Toph are too little, so it had to be you."

Zuko was a little pleased that the spirit of the moon-eyes had chosen him. He was so rarely chosen for anything else. "It _had _to be me?"

"Yep! Two grown-ups, sharing a grown-up pastime." She waved her arm and the stars fell from the sky to become her jewels, dusting her skin like diamonds. Suddenly there were a million prismed Kataras, a kaleidoscope of them turning, turning over his head, and he realized it was because she was leaning over him, her hair tickling his ears as she tilted her head—the Kataras all turned in the opposite direction, merging into one and then splitting out again—tickling his ears—like—like—

"I think I'm being attacked by a furry monster," he whispered, wide-eyed, unable to see anything past the curtain of her hair and the constantly revolving moons of her eyes.

"No you're not, silly," she whispered, and then something that tasted like cactus juice but wasn't was touching his lips, and so he opened his mouth and drank, deeply, reaching up with his hands to—

"Furry monster!" he yelled in panic, or tried to yell, bolting up, but his lips were stuck to Katara's and his hands were being wrapped like a furry boa constrictor had hold of them, and she was screeching something about _ow, ow, my hair, the furry monster has my hair has my hair _and the harder he struggled the more she squealed until their heads connected with a painfully loud _thud_ and they collapsed to the ground.

Zuko blinked the stars away, and for a brief lucid moment he realized Katara's head was lying on his chest and her shoulders were shaking and he lifted his arms to see that his hands were tangled in her hair, soft and silky. She propped her chin up on his chest and said, "Ow."

"Your hair is soft," he said.

"You're like a pillow," she said, experimentally pushing against his chest, bouncing her finger up and down. "A really hard, nicely covered pillow. Not as fat as a pillow, but still…fluffy! Are you filled with feathers?"

"I think your eyes are pretty," he told her.

She slipped her hand inside his shirt. "No feathers," she said, disappointed, her fingers dancing over his skin.

"You smile pretty," he said.

"I thought a rich pillow like you would have feathers," she continued, oblivious to the fact that his hands had freed themselves from her hair and were now stroking her head. She withdrew her hand from his shirt—for the best, he was starting to think that ants were running all over his chest, and he _really _hated fire ants—and said, "Oh well," and dropped her head face-first into his chest. Within seconds, she was snoring.

For the third time that night, Zuko couldn't breathe. But there wasn't anything to do about it, so he closed his eyes and went to sleep, and dreamed of moons and suns colliding.


End file.
